Smart Woman

by Jefferson James

I used to think of myself as a smart woman who could look after herself. I keep a gun in my purse and as long as I kept my wits about me, I felt I’d be safe working late at my office downtown. After last night, though, I am not so sure.

Making certain there was no one anywhere near, I went out the self-locking door and headed for my car, ready to unlock the driver’s door by remote control. I have it down to a routine and committed to muscle memory. I can get in, start the engine and be gone in only a few seconds.

Just as I was about to push the button to let myself in my car, however, I heard a woman groan and say, “Please help me.”

She was in the alcove of the doorway on the other side of the office next to mine. Her blouse was torn and hanging open exposing her bra. The remains of her pantyhose were sagging around her knees. Holding what was left of her torn skirt to herself, she began to sob and slumped against the wall.  Her mouth was bloody and her face bruised. She appeared to have been beaten and raped, possibly gang raped.

There was no one else as far as the eye could see. I ran to her, fishing my cell phone from my purse. I had dialed 9-1 when suddenly the whole world turned on end. My purse flew one way and my phone the other. She wasn’t a she; she was a he!

He spun me around, his strong hand reaching from behind and covering my mouth, squeezing so tightly that my jaw hurt. Over my right shoulder there was a quick flash of light reflecting on shiny metal, and then the unmistakable feel of a sharp blade against my throat.

It all happened so fast that he was already dragging me backwards into the darkness of a vacant storefront before I had recovered for the shock he wasn’t a woman and that I was likely to become a rape victim very similar to the one he was masquerading as. My skin went clammy as shivers washed over and through me like a tsunami, making my knees weak, my throat dry and my eyes open wider than they had ever been. I was terrified.

I can still hear his gruff whisper in my ear, telling me, “You don’t have to get yourself hurt. Be a good girl and suck my cock. Then, up your cunt it goes. I cum and I go. No struggling from you and no damage to you.”

Somehow, thinking he might want to rape me didn’t prepare me for knowing he wanted to rape me. Every muscle in my body tensed and rage filled me almost to the point of a violent explosion. With the heel of the hand holding the knife to my throat, the man pressed against my sternum and leaned backwards, lifting my feet off the floor in a show of strength. His breath was hotter than Summer and his voice was colder than Winter.

“You fight me, and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” he said. “You’ll wish it while I beat the shit out of you and fuck you anyway. You’ll wish it while I’m cutting you. You’ll wish it right up until you bleed to death.”

My feet flailed and I must have looked as helpless as I felt. My anger was rapidly being conquered by my fear. I had always thought there was nothing worse than rape. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“We’re doing this,” I was told, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You’re getting fucked. The less you resist, the less I have to hurt you. You give me too much trouble, and…”

He paused to let his words sink in, and then added, “Dead girls feel no pain.”

My feet touched the floor again, but I was shaking so badly I could barely stand. I tried to think of what to do, but my brain didn’t want to work. It was as if it had switched into survival mode and any thoughts that weren’t absolutely necessary to keep me alive had run away and were in hiding somewhere.

“Take off your pants.”

I heard the words, but I couldn’t have told you what they meant. In my mind, they were just sounds. My hands, however, seemed to understand. Almost as if they were being controlled by someone else, they slowly but surely unbuckled my belt, unsnapped and unzipped my slacks, and let them drop.

The cool air of the night washed over my bare legs and nearly shocked me out of my stupor. I couldn’t believe I had done what I had done, but I had. What I felt was beyond shame; I was mortified. How could I be allowing to happen what was about to happen? How could I have complied when I so badly wanted to scream, kick and claw?

I seemed to have just as little control over my feet as I did my hands. When I lost my hi-heels is anybody’s guess. But I had. My feet, although hesitant for a moment, also betrayed me, automatically stepping out of the pile of fabric surrounding them and pushing it aside.

“See the advantage of doing things my way?” my attacker asked. “You’ll be able to put those back on afterwards. They may get a little dirty on the floor, but you’ll look a lot better wearing them than a toe-tag.”

The knife pressed upwards forcing my head back. I had to stand on my toes to keep if from cutting into my neck. The grip on my jaw relaxed.

“Shhh…”

The hand that had been silencing me moved downward and began to fondle my left breast. The rage tried to rise in me again, but the terror wouldn’t let it. I gasped. I cringed. Then, gathering what little willpower I could find, I croaked out the words, “Please don’t.”

He shushed me again, his hand changing sides, forcing its way inside my blouse and bra, giving my right breast an even firmer groping.

“We’re going to do this,” I was told, emphatically. “Don’t be stupid. If I am willing to kill you to fuck you, why would begging change my mind?”

Of course I knew begging wouldn’t help. Nevertheless, I had to do something and that was one of the only things my paralyzed brain seemed willing to let me do. Another thing it seemed happy to let me do was sniffle and whimper has his hand continued on its predictable journey downward.

“A pretty, high-class business woman…” he said, chuckling softly. “I’ll bet you keep your little triangular lawn well manicured. Do you entertain much?”

Almost effortlessly, he wrenched me around and moved me a few feet to our left. In the dim light filtering in from a streetlight I saw the reflection of my half-naked body in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall. It seemed so surreal. The hand snaking downwards that I saw with my eyes seemed a completely separate reality from the one I felt moving across my belly and into the top of the only garment I was still wearing below my waist.

“Spread ‘em”

I shook my head adamantly, but watched, not at all surprised, as the quivering legs in the mirror opened slowly allowing the probing fingers the access they wanted. I clenched my eyes shut as if that could make what was happening stop, but his voice was still in my ear, whispering, “Smart woman.”

He angled his wrist so that my panties shifted downward, stretched tight across my parted thighs allowing him to look at as well as touch the small triangle he had referred to with his lawn euphemism. My slightly flared labia were pushed gently, flaring them more. Wincing, I felt a fingertip enter my vagina. My sniffling gave way to sobbing. What little pride I still had gave up. I could see it in my mind’s eye waving the white flag of surrender and I could hear its trembling voice saying, “We’re going to do this.”

“You’re wet. It seems your pussy knows it’s going to be entertaining at least one guest tonight.”

I honestly don’t know whether the voice that said that was in my head or in my ear.

The next voice I heard was strong and commanding and it was definitely coming from directly behind me.

“On your knees,” it said.

I may have shaken my head. I may have begged or even refused. It really don’t remember. Time seemed to play some sort of trick on me. My eyes opened and I looked up into a grinning face wearing a stocking mask that had been painted and made up to give the impression of a woman’s batter face. My lips and teeth compliantly yielded and an erect penis, like an unopposed battering ram, pushed its way inside. How and when I had knelt down to make this possible simply hadn’t happened. But there I was.

The man forcing me to suck his cock ran his fingers through my hair almost lovingly. His other hand, though, still held the knife whose gleaming edge ensured my cooperation. Not wanting to make the blade angry, I sucked gently. He was either larger or more insistent than other men I have known. Whatever the reason, he used more of my mouth than any ever had. Without even token resistance, I let him do as he pleased..

Even so, he pushed firmly on the back of my head. Normally, I would have gagged when he plunged as deeply as he did at that moment. Fear is an amazing thing, however, and somehow I forced myself to be receptive. Fear of what he would do if I tried to pull away caused me to swallow hard, pulling the head of his cock into my throat. He moaned and the warm, spongy invader popped back out, retreating across my caressing tongue.

On the return stroke, and every one after it, the process repeated, his cock plunging inward, the swallowing of its head, the unfamiliar feel of a penis in my throat and its withdrawal in preparation for the next cycle of what seemed a never-ending loop. I knew it would end, however, and I almost wished it wouldn’t. What was to follow was certain to be even more horrible.

Moreover, as shameful as it sounds, my body continued to betray me as it prepared for the inevitable. Even as filled with dread as I was, there was still the familiar sensation of warmth building between my tightly clamped legs. Sitting on my feet with my panties down around my thighs, with tears streaming down my face as a total stranger violated my mouth and throat, my vagina was growing more and more moist. I wanted to die.

More than that, though, I wanted to live. So, when the order was given…

“On your back.”

I obeyed.

“Spread ‘em.”

I cringed, hesitated, clench my eyes shut, shook uncontrollably, sobbed and begged unintelligibly, but still did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life — I obeyed.

 

Again, time had played a trick on me. I don’t remember removing my panties or having them removed, but they were in fact gone. It is nearly impossible to describe how repugnant it feels to lie submissively waiting for the initial penetration that will certify that your rape is no longer something about to happen and instead has become something that is happening. A rapist positioning his body over you is more smothering than you can imagine. His legs between yours, pushing them open wider, is more frightening than the worse nightmare.

Time slows to a crawl as his hand moves through and past your pubic hair, into the increasingly tight space between your crotch and his. Then, all too soon, there is the heart-stopping warm, wet, stickiness of his penis coming in contact with your labia, poised like a barbarian horde at the gates of an unprotected city.

Desperately, I wished time would play a trick on me again. It wasn’t to be, though. The stroking hadn’t simply begun. I was forced to endure every agonizing millisecond of him pushing inward, my labia yielding, and my vagina swallowing up his penis with just as much acquiescence as my lips, teeth, mouth and throat had. It was probably over in a few blinks of a tear-filled eye, but it seemed like an eternity.

In and out, in and out, deeper and deeper, harder and harder…  The harder he slammed into me, the harder it was for me to accept how little I was resisting. The deeper he plunged into me, the deeper my despair for not being as strong of a woman as I had always thought myself to be. My hands pushed against his muscular chest futilely trying to make him stop. I told myself it took more strength to submit than to fight and die, but I wasn’t convinced.

I was lying on my back in a vacant storefront, naked from the waist down with my legs spread. I was letting a total stranger have sex with me. The penis of a man I had nothing but hatred and contempt for was churning away deep inside me. Why? My struggles and pleading were laughable. I was letting myself be raped because of mere threats that I had no real reason to believe he would carry out.

Almost as if he knew that I needed reminding of my motivation, the man who was pounding into me with enough force to scoot me a bit further across the filthy floor with each thrust, pressed his knife to my throat again. He was breathing hard and his hot, ragged, breath warmed me nearly as much as the reddening of my face when he told me, “I won’t be pulling out and watering your lawn: It all goes in your honey pot.”

I don’t know that I have ever been able to differentiate between individual spurts of semen in the past, but I was certain I did this time. Each one was like a nail in the coffin of my soul. As I incrementally grew wetter and wetter, I sank deeper and deeper into a well of humiliation and despair. There was no stopping my degradation. I had let myself be used in a way no woman should ever have to.

I don’t know how long I laid there in the tight curl of the fetal position before my brain had cleared enough to make me aware of what would happen if another brute of a man found me alone without my pants. I found my panties and slacks and dressed as quickly as I could. I found my cell phone too, but my purse and the gun in it were gone.

Then, my eye caught the glimmer of something lying on the floor that caused me to start crying all over again. In his haste to get away, the detestable man whose semen was leaking from my vagina and soaking my panties had dropped his knife. Somehow, lying there it didn’t seem nearly as large, but I knew from the shape of the blade it was the same one.

I stood there petrified as if it were a snake about to strike. Then, to my horror, I discovered that my mind had played yet another trick on me. The edge that had felt so sharp against my throat and had convinced me to allow myself to be raped was actually dull. The gleaming metal that had somehow felt so cold was actually plastic. …the kind of knife you get at a fast food restaurant!

It’s a hard lesson when you learn that so much of what you thought was true turns out to be a lie. Being aware of your surroundings doesn’t make you safe. Having a gun and knowing how to use it doesn’t make you safe. The shattered illusion that was the hardest for me to accept, though, is that it is much easier than one might think to fool a smart woman.

The End

(c) Copyright January 2012 by Jefferson James. All rights reserved. No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for a single copy, by and for the person reading this notice, for private reading.